Every year, the Seltzers hosted a Fourth of July party on the roof that culminated with a perfect view of the fireworks over the East River. Fortunately, they were close enough that Harry, unless he looked straight down, could avoid seeing the river so that only the Brooklyn skyline would be visible. If he stayed on the opposite side of the roof, there was no view of the river at all.
Ruth, Sonia, and Sarah were setting up chairs on the roof of their building. The armchair for Harry was set up in its place near the Avenue A side.
"Ruth," said Sonia, "why do men always have midlife crises and not women?"
"It's probably our fault. We keep telling them they are cute and then one day they start to suspect that they aren't that cute. They start suspecting that they are just foolish and they will die and it will have all been foolishness."
"So they act more foolishly than ever?"
"Sometimes. Harry is still in the phase where he thinks he is cute."
"Harry is cute."
"That's the problem. Harry is like Mordy Oboy, those two will never have a crisis. That's why they never earn any money. Harry thinks that if he actually collected rent, the tenants would realize he is the landlord and they wouldn't like him anymore. Why?" Ruth suddenly looked worried. "What's wrong with Nathan?"
"Nothing. He's just acting a little funny. Haven't you noticed?"
"You mean the bracelet?"
"What is that bracelet? Who gave it to him? That's a midlife crisis bracelet."
Sarah was staring with her large, perfectly round, molasses-colored eyes. Ruth smiled. "Believe me. Just don't ask. If you ask, you will hear something truly ridiculous. And you never will find out the real story"
"Come with us to Avenue D," said Sonia, taking hold of one of Sarah's small hands.
"My husband the impresario. I guess I should."
Ruth, as a lifetime habit, avoided Avenue D, not because it had become another neighborhood belonging to Puerto Ricans, but because of her memories of it when it was Jewish. When she was a child, the Lower East Side was her country and Manhattan her planet. Avenue D was the edge of the planet. If you swept Manhattan and pushed the waste to the edge, that was Avenue D. The closer to the river, the worse it got. Buildings turned into shacks, shacks into junk piles, junk piles into garbage. When she was small there were still stables there and sweaty, rank-smelling horses. Since then, the garbage heaps were cleared and the highway was built. The shacks were torn down for groupings of brick housing projects. The streets became lined with cuchifritos, grocery stores with boxes of roots and tropical fruit, and botanicas such as Cristofina's. But Ruth had not noticed the change. She continued to think of Avenue D as a place that you didn't go—the garbage heap at the edge of her world.
"It's always great," argued Sonia. "Chucho Vega is unbelievable. I think he really will bring boogaloo back."
"Boogaloo. I didn't listen to boogaloo when I was supposed to. Why should I listen to it now? Well, it makes Harry happy. See, everybody wants to make Harry happy because he makes such a good happy person."
"That's a talent, too."
"Sí, señora," said Ruth.
Nathan couldn't go to Avenue D because it was his assignment, every July Fourth, to check on Nusan, who would be hunkered down on Rivington Street, dug in as though trying to survive a bombing raid that was blowing apart the city, which may very well have been what was happening in Nusan's mind.
Nusan was always the same on the Fourth of July. He wrapped his maroon scarf tightly around his neck, clutching it with both hands, and stared at his door as though expecting someone. It wasn't Nathan he was waiting for, because he would always continue staring at the door after Nathan arrived. The gray, bushy eyebrows over his deep-set black eyes flinched with each explosion, but the rest of him did not move.
As Nathan climbed the stairs on Rivington Street, he could already hear muffled bursts in the neighborhood. As expected, Nusan was in his chair, motionless except for the barely perceptible shudder around the eyes, staring through Nathan at the door. He said nothing.
Together they listened to the explosions. There was no place for Nathan to sit, so he stood by the door, just out of line of Nusan's stare, trying not to notice the overbearing and undefinable sour smell of the apartment, while trying to guess what nightmare Nusan was reliving. Did he hear the Gestapo climbing the stairs, the Wehrmacht coming to get him, or the Red Army coming to free him? What Polish town was under siege in his mind? In which camp was he dying while waiting for the gates to be smashed? His eyes said nothing—not fear, not anger, only fatalism.
Nathan tried to engage him by talking about anything he could think of, about the Avenue D fair, Chow Mein Vega's concert, the boogaloo, the Mets and Dwight Gooden's six-inning no-hitter against the Astros the day before, comparing Gooden to Nolan Ryan, another shooting at the cash machine, the drug dealers, the police, people in the neighborhood getting angry. "They have been having meetings with the police at the Boys Club."
He still had made no eye contact with Nusan, who did not move his gaze from the door, on which dark coats and hats had been hung, obscuring the tiny, tarnished brass peephole. If the door were to move at all, the coats, clothing Nusan never wore, would move first. Nusan had only to wait for the telltale swing of a sleeve.
"They have meetings all the time now. I think some of these new Japanese are involved. Not that all the new people are Japanese. I think they are getting organized. Shop owners. Like the people at the Edelweiss."
Why did he say that? He did not want to bring up the Edelweiss. And this, of course, was what finally caught Nusan's attention. His eyes focused on Nathan, and in a quiet voice he said, "SS Standartenfuhrer Rheinhardt Müller."
A string of little Chinese crackers went off, sounding like a prolonged trigger squeeze on an automatic weapon. It was hotter than one hundred degrees in the apartment. The air was stale and rotten. Nathan wanted to open a window, but that would have brought the explosions and the gunpowder that much closer. "SS Standartenführer who?"
Nusan looked at his desk and held his spread fingers over the stacks and hills of papers the way a pianist paused over the keyboard before playing. "Müller. SS Standartenführer Müller. Owner of the Edelweiss Bäckerei." Something went off in a single burst with an echo like a rifle shot, but Nusan did not flinch.
For Nathan, the worst of it was that when he thought of the Edelweiss he was suddenly overcome with desire—desire to get out of this fetid cell, find Karoline, tear off her clothes ... "No. He's not SS, Uncle Nusan. It's just the German man who owns the Edelweiss. He's not a Nazi. He's just a pastry maker."
"Just a pastry maker, a businessman, a doctor. Just a German."
He was expected to spend the day here—with the windows shut. A day in which Nusan would not go outside. It was a perfect day to slip over to the little bakery above the Edelweiss. What was she baking today? "Being a German doesn't make him guilty of something."
"How old is he? If he was there and he was German, he is guilty of something. You can be sure of that. He is guilty of doing something or not doing anything—while Leah was hanged by her feet and beaten to death."
A loud bomb went off, and Nusan jerked his head and stared at the door.
Leah? Nathan thought. Who was Leah? He had never mentioned anything like this before. In a soft voice that he tried to make sound soothing, he asked, "Who was Leah, Nusan?"
Nusan turned to him and, with an equally soft voice designed to mimic him, said, "Who was Moellen, Nathan?"
Nathan had planted this idea years ago. He wished he could open a window and the thought, the idea, the air, the smell—it could all rush out. He was standing in the center of this stinking room. He could have cleared a place to sit. Maybe on the couch where Nusan slept. Had he ever washed that pillowcase? The real reason he was standing was that his body, independent of his mind, was expressing its desire to leave.
"Look, Uncle Nusan, it was a mistake. I made a mistake. I even talked to him. He was ju
st in the army...."
"I vas just in the Wehrmacht, like everyone else." A wicked smile came over Nusan's face as he looked at Nathan. He could see in Nathan's eyes that he was right, the baker had actually uttered the cliche, "I was just in the Wehrmacht, like everyone else." That was what he had said. Actually, Nathan had never talked to him about it, but Karoline had said, "He was just in the Wehrmacht, like everyone else."
"They always say that, Nathan. They all say the same things. They were following orders, they had no choice. I never did anything against the Jews. I never knew about that until later. What a terrible thing. And I always liked the Jews." He studied Nathan's face and was disappointed. "No?"
"No. He never said that."
"Talk to him some more."
"I have to go now. Will you be all right?"
"Yes, yes. I will be fine."
It was easy. All Nathan had to do was ask if he would be all right and he would tell him how fine he would be and Nathan could ignore the disappointed look on his face and be away, free of the decaying remnants of the Holocaust, free to enjoy the eroticism of his own destruction. "Is there a Mets game this afternoon?"
Nusan nodded but did not move. Nathan put on the television and picked up an old, scratched record in a torn cover by the phonograph— Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra, Brahms Symphony No. I. He put the record on the turntable, placed the needle on the record.
He looked at the television and said to Nusan with false cheer, "Look, Cone is pitching. Against the Reds. Who knows, maybe Strawberry will save them." He exited to the dark and throbbing strings, a steadily encroaching force, that open the first movement.
Nathan did not feel good about leaving him, but he had to. What was worse? Where was he going? "To schtup the Standartenführer's daughter." Why did Nusan say that? He wasn't a Standartenführer. He was a pastry maker.
Harry Seltzer was wearing a freshly pressed white linen suit, his summer Latin impresario suit, walking up Avenue A singing:
Don't do that dance, I tell you, Sadie That's not a business for a lady. Most everybody kn—
"Harry!"
It was Cristofina in a very tight red dress—silk that glistened like liquid running over her plump body. Harry had always thought of her as fat. But it was very nice fat. There was something appealing about a woman making the effort, just trying—that was all Harry wanted.
While he admired Cristofina, she handed him a piece of paper. "Oh, what's this?" he said, unfolding it as though unwrapping a surprise gift. It was a bill for $987.45—itemized. It was a very long list. "This is a thousand dollars! All this for Ruben?"
"Do you think it is easy to make a Dominican with nothing to work with but a Puerto Rican? Wait until you see him," said Cristofina, rolling her eyes dreamily. "El Dominicano." She walked on toward Avenue D while Harry examined the bill. He could not decipher any of the items. But he did not mention anything about this when he went over to the casita to check on the band. He was the producer. Chow Mein Vega was the star.
When Harry arrived at the casita, his suit already wilted and sagging, the band was struggling into turquoise-colored shirts with ruffled and ballooned sleeves. Felix was practicing on the congas, his eyes closed, his head back, bringing his hands up high over his head, beating them with such irresistible waves of rhythm that everyone swayed at least a little. Sonia was there with Sarah, swaying slightly. Sarah was hopping from foot to foot, wearing a toothy smile.
For Sonia, the casita was a chance to speak Spanish, but more important, for Sarah to speak Spanish—though she barely accepted that the Nuyorican spoken there was Spanish. But it was better than no Spanish at all. "I can always add the consonants later," she said teasingly. Sarah had taken to saying, "Whazup wi dat?" When Sonia asked her why she was talking like that, she would explain with tutorial condescension, "I am speaking Spanish."
Felix played with his eyes shut, hoping to be lost in rhythm and beyond thought, like having sex. But, also like having sex, thoughts sometimes intruded. At the moment, he could not help thinking of how ridiculous he was in his ruffled shirt—a Dominican, posing as a Puerto Rican, dressed like a Cuban.
But to Harry, it was all "Hispanics"—Sonia, Felix, Chow Mein—"a wonderful culture." Someone had put up a sign on the casita—"No Hispanics Here"—in response to candidate George Bush's recent assertion that he intended to give a cabinet post to "one Hispanic."
Inside the casita, Chow Mein Vega was having a crisis. He had popped the buttons on his turquoise shirt. Cristofina had hurried back to her shop for a needle and thread—yes, she assured him, she had turquoise thread. But she could not run very fast on the tall, thin heels of her red shoes with her legs tightly bound in a silk dress.
"I've got some news," said Harry.
"You've found a bigger shirt?" said Chow Mein.
"Better than that. I talked to Tommy Drapper. He's coming to hear you."
"From Tommy's Bar?"
"That's the one. He will book you in the Village. From there you will get a tour. We're bringing boogaloo back."
Harry and Chow Mein slapped hands. "That's great, man. And it will be just in time for my biography. We can get a movie contract. And we can do the sound track." Then, changing voice, he said, "Listen to Felix. That is the stuff. In 1962 I worked with a guy from Bayamón who played congas like that. Drugs got him, though."
The crowd was gathering on Avenue D. Firecrackers exploded in the street, sending dogs whelping under the bandstand while people looked around anxiously, as though making sure everyone still had their face on. Grossman's Deli had a stand selling kosher pasteles. And at the cuchifrito stand, Consuela, with a Puerto Rican flag painted in sparkles on her soft and ample upper arm, sold lechón and garlicky bacalaitos, the batter thin and watery so that it would spread out and stay thin and crisp when poured in the hot oil, then served in a paper napkin that turned translucent as it absorbed the grease.
Dolby rode by and everything stopped. No one seemed to know Dolby's real name. He was just Dolby, an angry-looking man with long, receding hair and a beard, all of which stuck out around his head like a lion's mane. Dolby rode around the neighborhood on a bicycle with a sound system taped to the back that was so large, it made his bike look like an ice-cream cart. He played pounding, throbbing disco music through speakers so powerful that the sound was felt in the stomachs of passersby. When he rode down a block, everyone stopped what they were doing or saying until the throbbing sound had passed.
When Dolby reached Avenue B, Tommy Drapper, even though he was late, stopped his Mercedes and waited for Dolby to pass. Drapper, whose name wasn't Drapper when he had been growing up an Italian in Brooklyn, would have been on time if he had known where to park his Mercedes. He went to many bad neighborhoods looking for talent, and the problem always was finding a place for the car. He didn't know the neighborhood, and the more he drove around looking for a garage, the more convinced he was that he could not leave his car on the street over here.
While Tommy Drapper was looking for a garage, more and more people were pouring into narrow Avenue D, eating Grossman's pasteles, milling around among the little bursts of firecrackers lit by children, waiting for Chow Mein Vega. Finally, Harry stepped out on the bandstand, his suit as rumpled and edgeless as well-worn jungle fatigues, the pant legs gathering in rolls at his ankles.
Yet Harry glowed on the bandstand. It was only in front of an audience that he was at last able to forget how close he was to the dreaded East River—just across the highway and a little strip of lawn. But this was his moment, unmarred by the hoots and shouts of "En Español, Harry," and "Baila, Harry, baila!" But he was not going to dance. To him, their calls meant no more than the pop of firecrackers that also peppered the moment—part of the festivities.
Out came Chow Mein Vega, near bursting in his ruffled turquoise skin, and Felix and the others—a six-piece band. Felix slapped the congas and Chow Mein said in a slowly mounting crescendo, "AhhhhhM/i!"
The c
rowd swayed in unison from left to right and threw up their hands, shouting back, "Ahhh!"
"Yiddish boogaloo! Ahhhh!"
The crowd swayed again.
"Meshugaloo!"
"Ahhh!"
"Meshugaloo!"
"Ahhhh!
"Second Avenue!"
"Ahhhhh!"
"Avenida D!"
"Ahhhhhhh!"
The vibes chimed in, followed by keyboard. The Avenue D crowd screamed and threw lit firecrackers. People shrieked and jumped as the little bombs exploded around them. Over all this came the voice of Chow Mein Vega:
Go to the deli, And you will find, Corned beef, pasteles, And pastrami on rye. And for dessert—mofongo pie! And as you leave They'll give you A kishka good-bye.
And then he screamed in a strained falsetto, "A kishka good-bye!" and the crowd screamed more, set off more little blue-and-white cardboard bombs, as the musicians played on.
Chow Mein introduced a new work, "The Squatter's Boogaloo," which contained the lines
The landlord thinks The place is cleanah
Cuandojwes a light To la gasolina.
Whoops loud as firecrackers exploded into the sapphire-clear summer sky that glowed over the dark brick buildings. Behind the silliness of Chow Mein's boogaloo lyrics was his irresistible phrasing and rhythm as he rolled over the keyboard and Felix bounced a conga beat and the vibes tiptoed through it with timbales and a double bass in counterpoint. Chow Mein could do anything—from rhythm and blues, he could move to jazz. His lyrical voice was haunting when he sang slow ballads in Spanish. It was physically impossible for anyone within ear range to keep his or her body from moving. Most of the crowd was dancing. Sonia held Sarah and danced and wished that Nathan didn't have to be with Nusan.
Boogaloo On 2nd Avenue Page 17
